Angel Eyes
by TheSilentPen
Summary: "Love is blind, but it is not deaf." Blind jazz pianist Rachel Berry starts her first year at McKinley High with her music in her heart. She meets Quinn Fabray and suddenly, music isn't the only thing that brings meaning to her life. AU. Faberry.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Glee or any of its characters. The song in here, however, IS my family's property. So please, no stealing.

**A/N:** So here's an old story I dug up with band geek!Rachel... _blind_, band geek!Rachel. This Rachel is a synaesthete, aka, she can taste music. I was experimenting with the first person, and this came up... but I was a little too disappointed in it too release it. It's from around a few years ago. I hope you all like it, it's pure romance, just for you :)

If you'd like to follow me, link to my Tumblr is on my profile.

**Please Review**. Thanks. :)

* * *

**Angel Eyes**

_TheSilentPen_

* * *

People ask me what it's like to be blind.

Is it dark? Is there nothing but blackness, an unseeing oblivion of never ending colorlessness?

Truthfully, I don't know the answer to those questions.

Because I'm not sure what defines '**darkness**.' What is '**black**?'

What is **color?**

Those things don't exist in my world. I know nothing about these things they tell me about.

And I reply as such:

'_I don't know.'_

But maybe this nameless nothingness I see when I open my eyes is darkness. 'Is this 'blackness' that people speak of?' I ask myself some days when I sit up in bed, contemplating my sightlessness.

Is this what 'color' looks like?

I still don't know. I can't tell you what it is, because this nothingness is all I've ever known.

But I know what it is to_ feel._ To put my hands out in front of me in the morning and put my hand on the dented, cool, steel surface of my cane. I know what the cool tile of the hallway feels like against my toes, or the sliding wetness of water against the callused surface of my palm.

I know what it feels like to hurt. To wish that I could see _so_ badly that my chest _aches_. To cry and feel tears streaming from useless eyes.

I can feel joy, feel my muscles quirking up to smile, to feel light in my chest. To feel free and unburdened.

And I _know_ what it's like to feel music.

I know what it's like to _love_ it.

To open my mouth and let sound overcome me. To feel the pulse and beat of the drums in my veins like my own heartbeat. To feel the steady gait of the Bass plunk alongside the high-hat's steady click.

To taste every pitch in my mouth. The smooth, buttery taste of C and the sweet, sharp edge of A. The bitterness of F#.

I know what it is to hear all those things come together to create order out of chaos. To form something _tangible_, _rare_, and _sacred_.

To form a cacophony of flavors that play against my tongue and make my blood sing until there is nothing else left in this world except me and my music.

It fills me with a kind of euphoria, a kind of release that makes material joys seem cheap and ugly.

I can tell them about _all _these things.

But I can't tell them what 'black' is.

Because my world has always been full of _sound_, _touch_, _taste,_ and _smell_.

Not _color_.

And maybe, sometime in my life, I would've been upset about that. Maybe at some time, when the juvenile idiocy of High School morons teased me about my dead eyes, I might have cared.

But I don't care anymore. Not even one iota.

Because you can't miss what you've never had and you shouldn't waste your time or energy wishing you'd ever had it.

And my world of music is _so _much more beautiful than _their_ small minds can comprehend.

But accepting my blindness doesn't make it any easier to deal with.

Especially when it comes to the bullying.

I was home schooled during elementary and middle school. My fathers feared sending their young, innocent, _blind_ daughter out into the world. They feared what could happen to me without an adult watching, and rightly so.

I was a curious child. I explored the world through touch and smell (I learned at a young age that taste wasn't exactly a _safe_ way to identify something after grimacing around a mouthful of shaving cream).

After I burned myself on the fireplace during a sleepover at my cousin's house, they didn't trust anyone else to keep me safe.

So when I finally came to my second year of high school, I was thrust into the public schooling system by my rather adamant therapist and my reluctant fathers.

I didn't really know what to expect.

I quickly learned that being different gets you killed.

Or rather _slushied_.

The first day of school, I walked forward into the unknown mess of McKinley High School with my childhood friend, Noah Puckerman, guiding me through the school to my locker, my cane in and as he whispered gently into my ear all the various obstacles and turns.

I held onto his rough arm, muscles bulging and shifting under my touch and the deep rumble of his voice told me to wait by my locker as he got my schedule for the day. With an affectionate turn of the brim of my fedora, I heard the heavy, confident slide of his boots down the hall as he clamored off into the distance.

I placed my digits against the cool metal, running my fingers across the braille of the lock.

3, 21, 7.

It seemed easy enough.

There was a heavy stomping to my left, the heavy footed step of some self-assured idiot no doubt. With it, came a smash of my body against my locker, a spray of my textbooks hitting the ground, and the clatter of the wayfarers perched on my nose as it hit the linoleum of the floor.

My shoulder throbbed as I groaned, lifting myself off the floor.

"You should stay out of the way, loser," a voice sounded above me. "Couldn't you see me coming down the hall?"

It was deep and husky, with a hint of boyish arrogance. The taste of iron echoed his voice, spreading across my tongue unpleasantly.

I didn't like him.

"Well," I smirked, hands finding my glasses. I placed them snuggly against the bridge of my nose, hiding my blank stare. "I'd think that'd be impossible. Your ego makes it especially unlikely for me to _ever_ be out of your way. You and it take up the entire hall."

"You little _punk_," there rang a smidgeon of hurt through his voice. "You don't know who you're messing with."

"It's my first day," I replied, standing shakily, hand against the metal of the lockers. "I'd say not."

"You're a smart ass, aren't you?" The iron taste on my tongue grew with the anger in his voice.

"And you're a _dumb_ ass, aren't you?" I said, smirking cheekily.

"You don't know who the _fuck_ I am, do you?"

"No I don't," I shoved off the lockers, kneeling down to feel for the smooth covers of my books. "And I don't care to. I don't waste my time _or_ my memory on people who aren't worth it."

"Well you'll remember it in a good few." There was a scuffle and a yelp of indignation.

I gasped as something cold splashed onto my back, through the fabric of my vest, biting through my white (or so my father told me) button down. The scent of artificial grape flavoring stung my nostrils as _whatever_ it was dripped down my neck.

"Karofsky!" Noah's voice, deep and angry, echoed down the hall. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"She didn't move out of my way when I was coming down the hall!" 'Karofsky's' iron-laced voice responded indignantly. "She needs to learn to use her eyes! Stop sassing me! Learn where she is on the food chain!"

"She would've moved out of your goddamned way if she could've seen you coming!" Noah hissed. I felt his hands on my shoulders, guiding me to my feet as I shivered.

"What do you mean?" Karofsky's voice was frightened.

"Exactly like it fucking sounds, moron!" Noah's voice shook the metal. "She couldn't see you, even if she wanted to!"

"She's-."

"Blind? Yeah!"

The two of them continued to argue as I shook, teeth chattering.

God, my first day of public school and it'd been a nightmare.

I wanted to go home, go hide in my room, lose myself in the pounding of the keys and the rhythm of the music. Be alone in the cacophony of the notes and the smooth, cool feel of the ivory against my fingertips.

Maybe my therapist was wrong.

Maybe I wasn't ready for this.

…There was a step beside me.

A swift, quick one… but it sounded with the pulse of my heart in my ear. I was unfamiliar with the pivot of the heel, the self-assuredness in the right step, and the finality of its lift and the click of its fall.

I would forever associate it with that _one_ person who would (God, it sounds clichéd, even as I write it), change my life forever.

I can't think of any other way to describe her.

But maybe words _fail_ to.

"_What_ are you two doing?"

There sounded a _new_ voice, right beside me. It was soft, husky… _smoky_ in its sternness.

It tasted of melted, bittersweet chocolate. A sort of flavor that I've never tasted before, never on the many notes of my piano.

But it's something I've heard in old blues riffs. The type that sing of some nameless sorrow held in the strained power of a singer's voice and in the melancholy of their eyes.

Like the sort of sadness I feel welling in my throat and stinging my sightless eyes when I sing '_I Loves You, Porgy.'_

It's a human emotion. The sort that only lives in the soft notes of a warbling singer's voice.

…And in _hers_ when she speaks.

"Quinn!" Karofsky's voice is nervous, cautious. "Puckerman was roughing me up!"

"He threw a slushy at my girl bro for getting in his way!" Noah said furiously. I heard the slide of his boot against the floor as he fought to restrain himself from lunging forward. "It's not Rachel's fault."

"It's not her fault?" That smooth voice asked. "She stood in the way, Puck."

"She couldn't _see_ she was in the way!" An annoyed edge took residence in Noah's voice. I could visualize him crossing his arms, and the downward turn of his lips.

"You mean…" 'Quinn's' voice grew soft, almost gentle. "She's… blind?"

God, I hated it when people walked rings around the subject. I'd never taken kindly to people who pitied me. I was capable, I could take care of myself, and I didn't need people to doubt that.

Blind didn't mean invalid.

Blind just meant I had a little bit more of a challenge than other people.

And I'd always risen to that challenge. Always met it head on.

…But that day…

That day, I needed help.

"Yeah," Noah said softly.

"Karofsky," Quinn's voice grew sharp. "Get the _hell_ out of here. I'd better not catch you tripping her up again, or I'll have Hudson and Puckerman on your ass. Think twice before beating on someone who can't see you."

"Quinn-."

"Get out of my sight."

I felt Noah's hands on my shoulders. "God Rach, are you alright?"

"Y-yeah," my teeth chattered. "I…I'm fine. B-but I-I'm g-guessing I-I n-need to change."

"I'm sorry I left you, Rach," he sighed. "I should've looked out for you a little bit more."

"It's okay, Noah, it's not your fault." I paused. "Can you d-drive me home? I-I need some new clothes, I think."

"Sure, no prob, girl bro," his voice was soft and affectionate. I felt his hand on my shoulder, ready to guide me away.

"She can borrow something from me," 'Quinn' spoke suddenly. There was silence, before she continued. "It's your first day. I'd doubt you'd want to miss it. I have a shirt you could borrow. Your jeans and shoes are fine.

"I mean… if that's something you'd want to do," Quinn corrected herself quickly. "I don't want to force you to do it."

I clenched my jaw.

Was this stranger being sincere? Would was she safe to be with?

Could I trust her?

Noah seemed to sense my indecision. I heard him shift as he lowered his lips to my ear.

"She's a good person, Rach," Noah said softly. "It'll be okay if you go with her."

So I nodded. "…Alright. That'd be great."

I felt the slide of a gentle hand against my arm. Slim, soft, delicate fingers grasped me gently as Noah's touch slid away. "I'll take you to the locker rooms. Puck, can you give me her schedule? I can help her get to her classes."

"Are you sure, Quinn?"

"If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't have offered," Quinn snapped. I could hear her sigh. "Nothing bad will happen to her. I promise."

"Is that alright with you, Rach?"

"It's fine," I said.

"I'll get you by your locker after school then, alright?" he placed a soft kiss on my forehead. It'd been something customary. Something he'd done since we were little kids, when I'd tripped off the curb and fallen, and he'd wanted to kiss the hurt away.

Noah had always been softhearted. He hated it when women cried. Hated to see someone innocent hurt.

But his father had left his mother when he was still young. Noah had to toughen up for his mother and his sister. He hid his fears, his sorrow, his insecurities behind a bad boy façade and prayed no one would see the cracks in his armor.

I'd always been able to.

We understood each other.

We always would.

"Alright," I smiled. "Don't beat too many people up between now and the end of the day, though. I'm not going to hold ice against your face today."

"Didn't expect you to, girl bro," he chuckled.

* * *

"I'm really sorry those idiots slushied you," Quinn said smoothly. "Grape stains clothes badly, but it comes off the skin a little easier than the blue."

We were walking… somewhere, our footsteps echoing across a silent stretch of McKinley's halls.

"Had some experience?" I asked, smiling.

"Last year," she answered easily. "I took a bit of a plunge from the social ladder and ended eating slushies on a daily basis."

"So that's what he threw at me?" I lifted a brow. "A Big Gulp?"

"You can't say they aren't original," Quinn said, coming to a stop. The creaking of a door fell on my ears. "Then again, they lifted it off me, so I take it back."

"You came up with the slushies?" I asked as she pulled me carefully into the room.

"A year ago," she said, filled with some modicum of shame. "I was as big a jackass as Karofsky and I thought I'd get something from tearing people down."

"And now?" I questioned.

"Now I've lifted some and I know I had no right to tear anyone down," she pressed her hands against my arm. "Not when I'm lower than most of them."

"That sounds like a story," I smiled.

"It is," she agreed. "Hold on, let me go get you a towel and shirt."

I heard that sure step against as she wandered off in whatever direction. Holding my hands out in front of me, I felt around, searching for something familiar to grasp onto.

I felt cool, smooth porcelain and heard the drip of water against the smooth surface. Lifting my hands, I reached out, feeling the water against my hand. A sink, perhaps?

I switched the faucet on, wetting a hand, then running my hand along my neck, feeling the stickiness of the slushy come off in my hand.

"You found the sink, huh?" I heard Quinn's steps draw near. "Here, let's get that shirt off and wash off your back."

"You know, you really didn't have to help me," I said, reaching down to unbutton my vest and shirt. "But it's really nice of you to."

"Trying to do a little good," Quinn replied, stepping closer to the sink. "Just enough to wash away everything I did last year."

"That bad, huh?" I stripped the shirt off, jumping slightly at the feel of a wash cloth against my back.

"I thought I was better than everyone here," Quinn replied. "I was confused. I couldn't reconcile who I was with who my parents wanted me to be. I hated seeing people who knew who they were.

"They had something that I didn't," the wet towel stilled against my back for a moment. "They liked who they were and I hated them for it. So I wanted to make them feel as uncomfortable about themselves as I felt about myself."

"I can understand that," I said softly. "It's because you want something so much, but you can't have it?"

"Sort of," I heard the smile in her voice. "I could've had it… but I thought I couldn't because everyone else told me who I _had_ to be."

We stood there, silent for a moment.

"How do you know Puck?" she asked.

"Childhood friends," I smiled. "We went to synagogue together and grew up a few blocks apart. I fell off the curb walking down the street one day and he made it better."

"Huh," she clicked her tongue. "He's never mentioned you before."

"I'm not surprised," I chuckled. "I ruin his bad boy image. He's a total marshmallow around me. It wouldn't be good for his 'fuck and run' façade for girls."

"Are you together?" Quinn asked, a note of surprise in her voice.

"Oh no," I laughed. "That'd be impossible."

"Impossible?"

"I'm gay," I gave a half-smile. I paused. "That's… not a problem for you, is it?"

"It'd be pretty hypocritical of me if it were," she huffed out a breath. At my confused silence, she added, "I'm… not exactly straight either."

"It's a small world after all," I shook my head, grinning.

"Ugh, don't," she pressed a shirt into my hands. "Here, change up and I'll take a look at your schedule."

"Thanks," I said, fumbling with the fabric for a moment.

"Looks like we have English, History, and Math together," she said. "Jazz band? You play?"

"Piano," I pulled the shirt over my head. "I'm not that great though."

"I'll believe it when I hear it," she huffed. "And I _do_ want to hear it."

"Well, I was going to practice a bit at lunch, but I'm not sure where they keep a piano around here," I smoothed my hair out. "Could you help me out a bit?"

"Sure," I heard the smile in her voice. "We can go after math, is that alright?"

"Sounds like a plan," I nodded. I held my arm out. "Now come on, Quinn. Be a good Samaritan. Lead the blind girl to Spanish."

* * *

My friendship with Quinn Fabray became the highlight of my year at McKinley.

Quinn found out I was a little more than 'good' during our little jam session in the auditorium, where I played a quick rendition of _My Baby Grand_, complete with vocals.

"You are such a _liar_, Rachel Berry," she'd said with a note of disbelief in her voice. She lightly slapped my arm. "That was _not_ okay. That was _great_."

"Mmmm, it was _okay_," I said with another teasing smile on my lips.

Jam sessions started as irregular visits to the auditorium, then into a weekly, then daily occurrence.

Quinn would sit beside me on the bench, leaning against the end of the piano as my fingers wandered across the keys, playing with chords and letting the flavors run on my tongue.

Sometimes Noah would join us, and we'd sing songs together. Some random and hilarious, some deep and meaningful, and others to work out the frustration boiling in our veins.

But most of the time, things would be left to me and Quinn.

Quinn would request songs, and I'd play them with all the emotion I could muster. The flavors would play across my tongue in a sort of strange unity.

Sometimes, Quinn would add her voice to the mix, and the bittersweet tones of her voice would fuse seamlessly into the dark, brooding, sorrowful chords of some of my favorite songs.

Sometimes, she'd tell me about her life.

How her mother was the only person who'd ever, truly loved her. How, once upon a time, she thought no one cared about her.

Her father hadn't understood her. He'd wanted her to be pretty and perfect. A doll for him to flaunt to his coworkers, alongside his pretty, blonde wife.

He wanted to pretty her up and pass her on to some other man, where she'd become his trophy. He'd wanted her to be a lawyer, instead of an actress. Wanted her to be a wife and a mother to a man, not a _woman_.

How Quinn had come out to him the day before the Chastity ball, and he'd broken a bottle on her cheek and yelled obscenities at her till Quinn's mother called the police to haul him off.

How Quinn had become all the stronger for it, because now she could really be who she wanted to be.

She could be an actress, she could go to whatever school she wanted, and she could leave Lima.

Quinn _could _be a wife and mother, but to a loving, kind hearted _woman_.

Somewhere along the line… and I don't know when… Quinn crossed the line between friend, and something more.

She didn't care that I couldn't see her. That I liked my Jazz music a little more than most girls, and that I wasn't exactly the most _feminine _dresser in the world.

And Quinn didn't treat me like I was blind.

She let me make my way on my own. After the first two days of school, she let me walk beside her as an equal.

She didn't walk on glass around me, like Noah or my fathers.

…She just… _was_.

"Why don't you treat me like everyone else does?" I asked her one day.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Why don't you care that I'm…"

The word _blind_ was lost as I struggled to say it, my fingers pausing against the keys.

"Because you're just as capable of anything as everyone else," Quinn answered. "Because you're smart, you're determined, and stubborn… And…

"And you see things that no one else does," she paused. "We all have our eyes wide open and we struggle to look for ourselves. We aren't happy with ourselves or what we have, and we can't see the truth in it. In a way, we just can't see ourselves.

"You see yourself, Rachel," she said softly. "You see yourself and I can't. I don't have a right to tell you anything or baby you when I can't even find myself."

She had such a way with words.

There was something about that, the sound of that voice, and the worldly sadness in it that made me love her.

And to be honest, that scared me.

I'd never loved anyone. Never needed anyone.

All I'd ever needed was my music. Just the sound of the notes echoing in my ears and the smoky staleness of the Jazz bars I'd played in, along with the slow applause of an appreciative crowd.

I thought that would be all I'd ever need…

But I needed her, too.

I needed Quinn and her voice in my life.

But I didn't want to lose her.

I never wanted to.

So what if her touches lingered a bit longer than necessary.

So what if she linked arms when we walked down the hall.

So what if she leaned her head against my shoulder whilst I played the piano, and sighed into my touch.

There came a point where I couldn't take it anymore.

I had to make a move.

Even if I _did_ lose her…

I just… I had to take it.

So I messed around with the keys, fiddled with words, and glued together a song.

I wasn't as good with words as she was… But maybe, _just_ maybe it'd be enough to get the point across.

Because music is the best way for me to communicate _anything_.

* * *

Today is the day.

My hands are sweaty, my tie feels entirely too tight around my neck, and my mouth is utterly dry.

My fingers shake as I grasp my knees in my hands, sitting there at the piano bench, waiting for Quinn.

God, it all comes down to this.

I hear her walking across the stage, the sureness of her step, and I smile.

God, just to know she's here…

Just knowing she's here makes me feel so happy. Makes my pulse pound.

"Hey, glad you could make it," I say, waving her over.

"Of course," she says warmly. "You said there's something you wanted to talk about?"

"Yeah," I move over, patting the bench beside me. "Come have a seat."

I hear the creak of the wood and feel her place a hand on my shoulder, against the crisp line of my shirt. "Are you okay, Rachel?"

"A little nervous, but I'm okay," I suck in some air. "Or I will be, once I get this out in the open."

"Take your time," she says softly, rubbing against the skin of my forearm gently.

I breathe in gently, before placing my fingers on the keys, and starting the song.

"_I like to think… I ain't got time for that. And if I blink, I won't get that memory back of exactly how you looked when you smiled,"_ I sang out, voice soft. "_And I like to say that I can't let these words go, but they get away. Someday I'll let you know if you would stick around for a while._"

"_So here we are it's fall… The leaves are falling down. And if you're here my dear, at all, why don't you make a sound… and I'll come running to you again._

_"And I like to think. Think that you think of. 'Cause you're the ink that forms my words and you're my melody… every time that I write a song_."

My voice grew in power. I turn to her and sing, "_love is blind but it is not deaf"_ in her direction.

As the song closes, I let the final notes echo before pulling my hands from the keys and looking over at her.

"I… really like you, Quinn," my voice shakes. "I… I didn't know how to say it any better than I could in a song, so… I…

"I'm sorry if I've ruined anything," I'm sure my hands are trembling. But I need to act strong. I need her to feel like it doesn't matter either way.

But I'm scared. I'm honestly scared, for the first time in my entire life.

Quinn surprises me.

"Could you stand up, Rach?"

I furrow my brow. _'Why?_' is the unspoken question.

But still, I stand, the bench scraping as we both get to our feet.

And then there's something warm against my lips.

I recognize the feel of Quinn's hands on my cheeks, and I realize _God_.

Quinn's kissing me.

I feel her body tremble as I kiss her in return, lips sliding smoothly against hers.

My hands rest around her waist, shaking.

This can't be real.

It can't be.

As we part, I feel the tears stream down my cheeks from my empty eyes.

"Oh, _Rachel_," Quinn's voice is soft, reverent.

Her fingers play across my cheeks, before kissing away the tears softly.

"That was the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me," she says. Her voice flows over me. "Thank you. I loved it…"

She kisses me again.

"And I don't really like you."

My heart sinks before I feel her voice my chin up, and the soft brush of her lips against mine.

"I _love_ you."

The tears fell more strongly, then. I buried my face in my hands, the happiness bubbling in my stomach. "I… I-."

"Shhhhh," Quinn hushes me.

I feel Quinn grasp my hands softly in her own, molding her curves against mine. I feel her smile burn itself into my neck as she buries her face into the curve of my shoulder.

"Don't say it right now," she says softly.

"We'll get there someday," she's smiling. "We have all the time in the world."

I smile.

I know she's right.

* * *

**A/N: **Trainwreck? Yes, no, maybe so? Let me know, please! Review!

P. 's song is actually my sibling's poetry, so PLEASE no stealing.


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